


The Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag

by OneWhoTurns



Series: The Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Heresy, Implied Voyeurism, Minor Emily Kaldwin/Wyman, Pre-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), Superstition, Touching, choking kinda?, emsider, folk lore, rhyme of the rosewater hag, semi-dark outsider, trickster Outsider, unapologetic smut, visits to the void, weak M rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/OneWhoTurns
Summary: “That’s a lie.”“May the Outsider claim my lying tongue if it is.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iron Moon (Erebia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erebia/gifts), [Hirvitank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hirvitank/gifts).



> Having just finished Brigmore Witches, I was thoroughly intrigued by the Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag. So I decided to do a quick little ficlet about it. Expect minimum two chapters. Just wrote it a few hours before posting, so excuse a lack of finesse, I just liked it enough to share publicly.

“That’s a lie.”

“May the Outsider claim my lying tongue if it is.” Emily raised her hand solemnly, shooting a pointed look at the suspiciously silent Wyman. The smirk on the young Morleyan’s face was far too broad.

“You’re saying you’ve never used a bone charm? Ever?” The Tyvian ambassador’s daughter looked thoroughly doubtful.

“That’s heresy - she’s the Empress of the Isles, of course she hasn’t.” That was Horace Evelyn, the son of the host of the night’s party, and his tone was dripping with scorn.

The small group of young nobles sat about the lush salon, fitting the theme of the evening’s soiree, decked in gauzy silks and luxuriant pillows, harking back to the romanticized poetry and folk tales of old Serkonos. It was the season for fêtes and parties - the week before the fugue feast - and the seven young people, themselves draped in fittingly thematic dress, were all flush with drink and gossip.

Emily herself wore the least exciting costume of the bunch, though she’d managed to convince the Master of Ceremonies for Dunwall Tower - the man who had final say on all of her formalities - that wearing a dress was perfectly harmless, and that red (not scarlet, of course not scarlet, something _muted_ ) was the only appropriate choice for such a themed evening. He’d relented in the end. And she’d arranged a slight distraction to stop him from interfering in the fitting for her (not as low-cut as she’d wanted) wine-colored gown. Still, she didn’t have the dramatic silhouettes and gaudy embellishments of her companions. Just the roses she’d stolen from the hall of the tower that she’d ordered Alexi to braid into her hair - completely undoing the complex weave of ribbon and hair that had been so tight as to hurt her scalp - one flirtatiously tucked in her décolletage, another fashioned into a minimalistic corsage. A piece of thin black ribbon, cut from the one had been woven through her former hairstyle, was tied in a bow at the side of her neck. They’d never take her knife, at least. The empress was expected to defend herself if need be.

“I agree. I think she’s lying.” Wyman’s voice was smooth, their smirk having been toned down for the moment.

Of course she was lying. They’d been together when she’d used one. The empress had secured it to the frame of the bed herself. Months trapped at the Golden Cat had taught her something about being responsible, at least. She was lucky the delegation from Wei-Ghon had left before the party, or someone else may have known the truth as well. At least most of her affairs were international… fitting for an empress.

Rosalind Dohertry - being part of the nouveau riche - held none of the prudish assumptions of the Evelyn heir. She stood in one fluid motion, rising from their little circle of plush cushions, and went straight to the bookshelves against the opposite wall.  “Let her prove it then.”

Emily shot a glare at Wyman as the rest of their circle exchanged looks: confused, amused, and - on Horace’s part - affronted. “Where exactly are you-”

“Oh shut it, Evelyn, I snooped in here at your last party, don’t think your family’s so pure and faultless--” She reached into the space behind some books, groping around until a mischievous grin lit on her features. “Here it is.” She pulled out a dark well-worn volume. Every gaze affixed to it as the young woman returned to their little group, a wicked gleam in her eye.

This was why Emily found Rosalind one of her favorite guests at any event: the girl knew how to make things interesting. One of these days Em would stop feeling so intimidated and get the girl alone to see just how interesting things could get.

All parties leaned in, even as Horace spluttered about invasion of privacy, and Rosalind flipped with determined fingers, skimming a page or two and then skipping ahead. She seemed to know the tome well.

“This-” she stabbed at the page, a hollow thunk echoing in the newly silent room. “ _The Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag_.”

Emily felt her own heartbeat fluttering, but tried not to grin. She loved this sort of thing. She wasn’t allowed to, of course, what with the Abbey breathing down her neck at all times, but what girl hadn’t had a superstitious phase in her teens? She’d smuggled books from the library at Dunwall Tower to read under her covers at night, chilling tales of ghosts and ghouls and -- and the Rosewater Hag. She shivered, some part of her thrilling at the danger of it even as she reminded herself that 19 (or, okay, 18 and 9 months) was far too old to still be believing in superstitious nonsense.

If she’d thought too much about it she might be blushing, remembering the embarrassing moment she tried to summon the Outsider himself by chanting some stupid poem about whales and walking three circles backward around a hand mirror in a dark room… that hadn’t been a shining moment, for sure, but she’d collapsed in giggles telling Alexi about it. That was what she got for referencing the journal she’d written while sequestered during the Rat Plague. That whole thing was a mix of fact and fiction. She’d been an imaginative kid.

Another noble’s voice, this one coming from the usually quite quiet Serkonan Adiz, spoken in a wry hum. “Speaking of heresy…” A few more exchanged nervous glances. If she did this, they would be witnessing some truly shocking behavior from an empress.

Let them be shocked. “What exactly is _the Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag_?” Emily asked, as though she didn’t already know.

She did, of course. And the fact that she already wore materials she’d need had her far too excited. As much as she denied it, she still loved the supernatural. All tales and fiction, but even the idea of them would’ve made her squeal if she didn’t want to maintain her confident demeanor.

“It’s how we test to see if you’re telling the truth.” Rosalind’s grin was sharp, and Emily couldn’t help but find it very attractive. Why was she always attracted to danger?

“I am,” she lied.

“Careful, Your Majesty, the Hag isn’t someone to trifle with,” Wyman warned, though their tone was light and joking.

“As I said: it’s the truth. May the Abbey curse my bones and the Outsider ravage my errant mind if I lie.” She could hardly keep the smirk from her face. Wyman’s brows raised skeptically, but they shrugged.

Rosalind cleared her throat, drawing the attention back to her as she read aloud. “ _First, whoever is to be tested must find a fountain of standing water and cover the surface with fallen rose petals._ ”

“What a shame, looks like there’s no fountain is sight, you’ll just have to trust her and move on-” Horace reached to close the book, but Rosalind shifted her back to him, keeping the tome out of reach.

“We’ll make do.”

“Here-” That was Hettie Ashmore, a girl Emily had always found a bit too eager to side against her. Now Hettie upended a large bowl of fruit that had been resting on a nearby table, spilling the contents onto the floor and placing the bowl in the center of their circle.

“Thank you Lady Ashmore,” Rosalind grinned, and looked imperiously to the Tyvian ambassador’s daughter, Katya. “If you’d be so kind as to empty the water pitcher, that may be enough.”

When the first pitcher did little to fill the surprisingly large basin, Hettie was the first to volunteer to refill it. Listening to the faucet in the adjoining bathroom, Emily found herself cocking her head as she watched Rosalind. The Ashmore girl, Emily knew not to trust her, but Rosalind? Was this truly malicious? She may look like a fool - especially going face first into a bowl of chilled water - but surely her friend didn’t truly mean her harm.

It took four trips back and forth to the sink before the basin was full. The room grew progressively quieter. Suddenly, things seemed so… real.

As Emily moved forward to touch the bowl, Hettie slapped her hand away.

“ _Standing_ water. Let it come to rest.” She had the look of a cat who got the canary. That, even more than the slap on the wrist, annoyed Emily to no end.

Amber eyes narrowed at the Gristol noblewoman. Another moment passed.

“Em-”

The empress silenced Wyman with a glare. She was going to do this. No one would stop her. She’d watch the grin fall from the Ashmore girl’s face and be glad for it. And then she’d shame the girl for her belief. For piety triumphed over heresy, and she’d triumph over some silly superstitious ritual.

The surrounding guests watched in tense silence as Rosalind reached forward with confident but delicate hands, taking the rose from Emily’s wrist and holding it above the water to crumble petals onto its surface. She beckoned Emily forward until the girl knelt before the bowl, and then plucked the bloom from the neckline of the empress’s dress to add its petals to the other.

Emily found her face heating despite herself. Part of her was a bit embarrassed that she’d even agree to such a thing, but a larger part of her - the spiteful, cocky part of her - intended to scoff at the whole business, and then shaft Hettie Ashmore from any future plans.

Rosalind tucked a strand of Em’s hair back gently, with a small and wicked smile, and took the final rose from where it had been placed, fingers that were a bit too rough for a noblewoman tracing Em’s jaw briefly as she pulled away. Then the petals sat on the water, and Rosalind sat across from her. She read again. “ _First, whoever is to be tested must find a fountain of standing water and cover the surface with fallen rose petals._ ” She glanced around at the circle, preening in the center of their attentions, before she went on. “ _Once there are sufficient petals so as to completely obscure the water, you must close your eyes firmly, and place both hands within the fountain so that they are submerged beneath the blanket of rose petals._ ”

Despite her confidence that the whole ritual was silly, Emily found herself noting that - well, the water wasn’t completely obscured, so it wouldn’t work. And it wasn’t a standing fountain. So it wouldn’t work. _No, it won’t work because the whole thing is bullshit_ , she reminded herself. _Rosalind wants attention, and we’re giving it to her. Hettie wants some petty drama and she’ll be sorely disappointed_. She placed her hands into the basin, goosebumps immediately racing up her arms as she grit her teeth determinedly. The water was cold. Very cold. There had been ice in the pitcher, and Hettie had most definitely left it in as she filled the rest of the bowl. She felt the chill sinking into her skin.

“ _Then you are to recite the following verses:_ ” Rosalind straightened her back, and her voice dropped, instructing Emily to repeat after her.

For once, the Empress did as she was bid.

 **_“Petals, petals on the water_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Tell me, tell me, where's your daughter?”_ **

She set a fierce and haughty gaze on Rosalind’s face, her repetitions spoken confidently and without the sensationalist overtones of noblewoman who instructed her.

 **_“Has she drowned beneath the mark?_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Has she vanished in the dark?”_ **

Doubt began at the base of her spine and worked its way up, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, but she kept herself still -- perhaps too still.

 **_“Petals, petals on the water_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Tell me, tell me, where's your daughter?”_ **

She didn’t want to, but the sudden doubt made her shift her gaze for just a moment, catching the look of malicious glee on Hettie fucking Ashmore’s Voiddamned face.

 **_“Has she trysted by the well?_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Has she secrets left to tell?”_ **

Wyman actually looked worried for once. A look she wasn’t accustomed to seeing on their usually impish face.

 **_“Petals, petals on the water_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Tell me, tell me, am I your daughter?”_ **

She felt as though the water were humming, like something made it vibrate on her skin. The petals trembled, though Emily was sure she was keeping herself still.

Rosalind held up a finger before Emily, halting her. If she hadn’t been in the middle of some kind of occult ritual, Emily might have snapped at the girl for her insolence. Instead, she just glared.

“ _After this you must lean into the fountain, lowering your head fully into the water and under the rose petals, face first with both eyes still squeezed tight._ ” The girl was smirking. “ _Count to three and then open your eyes. At that moment, it is said that the Rosewater Hag will arrive. If you are without fault you will see nothing, except that you will feel her gentle caress on the back of your neck. But if there is a falsehood or wickedness in your heart,_ ” she glanced up, eyebrows raising in delight at the morbid possibility, “ _you will see the terrible face of the Rosewater Hag, a creature of indescribable horror. The hag will drown you in the fountain with a cord made of thorny vines._ ”

Katya gasped at the word _drown_ , but Emily didn’t react.

“Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

Horace Evelyn shot up from his spot on the cushions, “Stop this at once, I-” Hettie slapped him and he stopped talking, staring at her dumbly.

Emily nodded.

As she carefully leaned forward, she realized what a stupid idea it was to put herself in such a position - this girl could drown her right now, no hag need attend - but reminded herself that there were five other witnesses. Such a thing wouldn’t happen.

Eyes shut tight, she-- _cold_ -

So Voiddamned _cold!_

But she forced herself to continue even as her back stiffened, not allowing herself to pull her head out, instead thrusting it further under the water until her hands hit the bottom and she stopped herself before her face might follow suit.

Her pulse had skyrocketed, with the added anxiety of being unable to breathe - even if it only was a few seconds - and the fact that she _felt_ something in that water and it wasn’t rose petals it definitely wasn’t rose petals-

_ONE._

This was a mistake, a huge mistake, she was going to die she was going to die-

_TWO._

If she died, Corvo would _kill_ her- he’d always been superstitious, had tried to instill a healthy fear of the supernatural in her as well-

_THREE._

She hesitated a fraction of a second more, then opened her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the real fun begins. I apologize if you found the first part misleading as to the direction this story would go. It was intended to be emsider the whole time. It ended up getting... a bit out of hand. Either way, I had a lovely time writing it and hope at least a few others enjoy it as much as I do.

“Your little friend was right, you know;”

She gasped in surprise, and immediately cursed herself, expecting to choke on icy water, but whatever she was breathing-

“The Hag isn’t someone to trifle with.”

The voice that met her ears didn’t belong to any of the members of the circle, either. Nor did it sound like a hag. It came to her like an echo, like a memory. She blinked what should’ve been water from her eyes, but they were dry. Instead of the silver basin, her hands (and her knees and feet, she noted) rested on stone. Stone that was decidedly not from Gristol. Or from anywhere in the Isles.

She looked up, and felt her stomach jolt as her eyes met pure empty space - an abyss that fell infinitely into nothing. Stone floated in great sheets and in tiny pebbles, suspended but still somehow moving, and she knelt on one of them. But inches away that all ceased to exist. It stopped, and before it grew… nothing. An abyss. The Void.

“You’re lucky I stepped in.”

The voice was coming from behind her, she realized, and quickly she fell back and rolled sideways, a motion that she would’ve modified to bring her to a standing position had her legs not been tangled in skirts. (Was this why her mother had stopped wearing dresses?) Instead, she stopped herself from falling forward and steadied herself on the heels of her palms before working on getting her legs in a more useful position. She didn’t need to look far to find the source of the voice. On a distant jagged rock on the far edge of her large platform. Seated, casually, arms steepled over his knees as he watched her. Seeing him made her movements falter. Her lips parted, as though she might say something, but she just frowned and snapped them shut again. In another few seconds she had her skirts bunched in one hand up to her knees, and her legs were soon under her. As she stood, she stumbled back again.

He was closer now. He hadn’t made a sound - the air was all quiet wailing winds and almost electrical hums, no footsteps had disturbed the dissonance of it - but he’d come closer. Quite close. He was no more than two feet away now, glancing at her struggle with a slight quirk of amusement to his lips, before he turned on a heel and began a slow pacing arc around her. “Yes well - it’s good to see you again, too.”

Her cheeks went pink and she scowled at his wry tone. He _did_ look familiar. But he’d seemed so much older then, she’d lumped him in with her father and the ‘adult’ types. Another glowering presence, only this time in her dreams. Not quite stoic but still off-putting, always watching, observing. This ancient creature that had haunted her for, what, three nights eight years ago? Less? Now he looked - she felt the blush creeping over her neck and chest - well, not much older than her, to be honest. And… and attractive, to boot.

His smirk grew more pronounced, and she wondered if he could read her thoughts.

_If you can, I hope you choke._

“A silent empress? That’s a first. Usually you royal types are so outspoken.”

Her lips pursed in irritation as he finally stopped moving, having drawn even closer, and he cocked his head to the side as bottomless black eyes glanced over her with mild curiosity.

“Perhaps you take after your father. He never talked much here, either.”

Her annoyance dissipated in an instant of complete surprise, and her mouth dropped open again, eyes wide, interest piqued. “My father? Here?”

His eyes had sparked as hers had, though how she’d seen it in their pitch black depths she couldn’t know. “She speaks,” he murmured, a hand lifting to her face, thumb brushing across open lips for a fraction of a second as he turned his wrist, fingers trailing lazily down her jaw, her neck, as he went on. “I was starting to think I was too late.” She stilled her head even as she glanced down, watching his sleeve as his hand closed gently around her neck. “That the hag had strangled your lying throat before I took you.”

She closed her mouth, swallowing hard and feeling the slight pressure he placed on that same _lying throat_. Firm enough she couldn’t mistake it for anything other than his grasp, but loose enough that she breathed unimpeded. Her head swam, his touch having chased previous thoughts from her mind. He’d never been so close. Even when she’d seen him before, he’d been elsewhere - further away, too far to read anything but keen observation on his face. But now…

He was distracting her. Regardless of how true his words were - and were they true? Had he really snatched her from death’s door? From the grasping vines of the Rosewater Hag? - he’d evaded answering. If she recalled correctly, he’d never answered her before, either. For all her questions - who he was, why he was there, where _there_ was, what he was watching her for - she’d been met with silence. She was a child then. His silence, offered from afar, could only be met with pouting and foot-stomping. But she was grown now. He didn’t keep his distance. And he wouldn’t keep his silence if she could help it.

“Why was my father here?” Her voice was hushed, though it didn’t need to be loud to reach his ears - if he even needed ears to hear in this place.

A flash of panic shot through her as his grip tightened, and her hands clutched at his wrist - not quite prepared to offend the god by clawing him off, but making it clear she expected him to let go. He held her like that for a moment, black eyes narrowed in some facsimile of curiosity as fear slowly blossomed in her gaze. Finally he let her go, turning his back, and in another instant he’d reappeared a few feet away, still pacing, examining his fingernails with disinterest.

“No ‘thank you,’ Your Majesty? No apology? How many times have I saved you now, two? Three? Most humans are lucky to escape death even once.”

She stared after him in growing horror, hand lifting to her neck as she tried to maintain composure instead of gasping for air. What was he talking about? Saving her? But hadn’t he just-- No. She turned her gaze to the ground as she rubbed her throat, mind a jumble of thoughts and feelings. He wouldn’t save her just to kill her himself, would he? Void, how could she possibly know: he was a god. The motivations of gods were incomprehensible. And twice? Three times? She didn’t remember being so close to death before… And she’d never been torn from her very reality like she’d been just moments ago.

When she glanced up, he watched her with a single raised brow, that same look of mild amusement. Waiting. Observing her reaction.

“I’m-” She stopped herself before she might say more, pursing her lips. She wasn’t about to apologize. And she wouldn’t thank him after he tried to choke her. _If he’d tried, he would’ve succeeded_ , her traitorous mind nagged at her. _It was a warning_. But a warning to do what? _To behave yourself. To submit._

Ha. No, she wasn’t about to believe that. She raised her chin defiantly, managing to adopt a tone almost as careless as his, filing her curiosity away to examine later. “I appreciate what surely must’ve been a real _chore_ for you, _all-powerful Void god_ ,” she drawled, before her tone hardened. “Now if you’d be so kind as to inform me of why my father was visiting this hellscape, I’ll be on my way.”

The amusement was no longer so mild, both brows raised as his lips curved into a mocking smirk. “You’ll be on your way, will you?” He seemed to break into pieces in one location as he reformed in another, a swirl of black shards. He swept an arm out, gesturing to the edge of the stone platform. “Go on. Try.”

She seemed to _feel_ the grating, shifting, ringing of stone as it moved, even though it made not a sound. A path formed. The suggestion of a path: jagged, yes, with a few ominous-looking gaps, but manageable. Emily’s eyes darted over it, suspicious. His voice drew her gaze.

“If you make it to the gate, you’ll be home before I can tell dear old Corvo what his daughter’s been meddling in.”

Again, he mentioned her father. _Familiarly_. As much as she tried to keep her lofty facade, her frustrated confusion wasn’t particularly well hidden. And when she looked back to the path there was, indeed, a gate. Some ways off, but located squarely at the end of the winding path. Two shards of obsidian that seemed dangerously poised against each other, as though they might fall at any moment. Her gaze followed the whole trail back from the gate, eyes spotting each precarious ledge and leap, until she looked at the start of it all: four feet away. A single, non-threatening two foot drop.

“Well?”

Her head jerked up again, to find him standing midway down the path, arms crossed over his chest as if in challenge. No, not ‘as if’ - it _was_ a challenge, plain and simple.

“Afraid you might ruin your pretty dress, Your Imperial Majesty?”

She fixed him with a glare sharp enough to pierce skin. The black-eyed bastard just stared her down, still with that eerie vicious amusement. She scoffed. If he thought she was scared of a little physical strain, he obviously didn’t know her. She kept her eyes on his, her own brows lifting in brief challenge, as she kilted up her gown, getting the layers of fabric to cooperate and perch where she wanted them so she might move more freely. Two steps back, then she began to run.

One drop, a quick turn, planting a hand and vaulting sideways over another stone - she ran it fast, faster than was strictly necessary, gaze calculating each movement just before she had to make it, bounding lithely, the muscles in her arms and thighs burning pleasantly, quickly warming up to the motions she practiced every other night. But the next gap was big - bigger than she’d thought - a yawning chasm between stones--

“Emily-”

_More speed-_

She watched the edge, calculated, and flung herself at the last moment. As she hit she dove into a roll, even as her knee protested the unexpectedly harsh landing. Too late, she realized she’d miscalculated. Her breath froze in her throat as she tried to correct her course. It was sheer luck that let her weight shift just enough to shift back from the looming edge, pebbles scattering and freezing in air instead of falling off the sheer drop. She stumbled backwards, trying to steady her footing even as she cursed herself for hitting the wrong spot, angling her roll too much forward and not enough to the right-  

“Emily-” Her back thudded up against him just before he closed hands around her arms, stilling her, stopping her from bowling him over and pushing them both off of the opposite ledge.

Training kicked in, and she stomped down, then jammed elbows and head back-- He’d disappeared again, and once more she stumbled, this time tipping backward, and she quickly tried to lower her stance, spread her feet and get stable once more, arms braced to help her balance-

He grabbed her wrist - whether to steady her or force her further off-balance, she didn’t know and she didn’t care - she wrenched out of his grasp and let herself fall to the ground -- at least there it would take more than a misstep to fall into the Void.

“ _Emily_. That’s enough.”

His voice had lost some of its mockery, its amusement, instead sounding cross. Emily’s heart was racing, the terror of nearly plummeting into the Void mixing with the sheer exhilaration of the run beforehand. She was panting, limbs surging with pent-up nervous energy, all wound up. When she met his eyes, his lips twisted wryly.

“I’ll admit, you made a valiant effort-”

“I’m not done,” she insisted, dragging herself to her feet. She clenched her fists, rolled her ankles, flexed her toes, glaring at the next edge.

“ _Yes_ you are.” He was in front of her once more - close, _incredibly_ close - and a strong palm pressed against her sternum, stopping her from moving forward.

She blinked, eyes that had been on the stone now staring at his chest, and she quickly refocused her gaze, tilting her head back just slightly to meet his eyes again, angry and stubborn.

Whatever annoyance or anger that had been in him had softened, and his smirk was almost patient. “I admire your tenacity, empress, I really do.” Every time he spoke it was disorienting, sounding as though it was both burrowing into her skull and echoing from miles away. As he reached a hand up to cup her cheek she only managed to stop her _body_ from flinching, though her features still twitched, showing her desire to recoil. “But you _are_ done.” Fingers grasped her chin firmly and he directed her gaze toward the gate, his eyes not leaving her face even as the stone path curled in on itself, leaving the primordial archway standing alone, too far for any jump she might attempt.

She felt her shoulders sag, and this time when she turned her face away he let go of her. Her tone was bitter. “You didn’t even make it _possible_ -”

“It’s possible. Just not with your… _current_ skills. You’ll be able to reach it, one day.” The words seemed to amuse him for a moment, but he shook his head, and in another instant was a few feet away again. “But no, I didn’t intend for you to leave so soon.”

She glanced once more at the distant gate, fidgeting for a moment, then sighed as she looked away. Undoing the knots and folds she’d used to keep her skirts out of her way, she smoothed the gown free of wrinkles as best she could, but made no effort to approach the god. “Do you _intend_ to answer my questions, then?” Despite her relatively unassuming pose and even, almost casual tone, her glare was intense.

He turned to face her again, meeting her piercing amber glare with a black abyss that would drive her mad if she wasn’t careful. Again, that smirk. He held her gaze for far too long to pretend he hadn’t heard her query. Just as the air grew thick, unease shooting darts of warning through her body, he disappeared _again_.

A cold hand tucked under her hair and cupped around the back of her neck, and she swallowed her squeak of surprise, attempting to step away from the presence that loomed once more at her back. Another hand looped around her waist, holding her still. She stiffened, skin rapidly reddening, and she realized with some chagrin that his cool skin was almost a welcome relief. Once she stopped trying to move away, his arm retreated. She had to admit that, after her run - and after such a close call - the chill of his touch soothed her heated skin. Emily shifted foot to foot, hands balling into nervous fists, but gradually her breath became even again, quiet, her limbs no longer trembling from the shock and exertion.

She hesitated, and was about to voice her question again when he spoke.

“You know…” he mused in a low murmur, “I would’ve stepped in either way.” His arm circled around her again, the fluidity of the movement emphasized by the smoke that seemed to waft off of him. It wasn’t an iron grip - she was sure she could break it if she tried - but graceful fingers drummed against the dip of her waist before coming firmly to rest. His hand peeled away from her neck, pushing aside hair that had long come loose from its styling, skimming down the curve of her neck, her shoulder, cupping her arm, and she felt him shift until his chest pressed against her, breath curling like smoke around her ear.

She closed her eyes for a moment, brow furrowed, unsure if this was fear she felt or- or something else.

“...But then you made all those oaths…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than the last two, closing out the story. I really liked writing this, and may end up making some kind of sequel, just to indulge the full smutty range of smut that my smutty self wants to smut -- I mean write. But for now, I'll close it here.

Oaths? What oaths? Something inside her was twisting and roiling in her gut, and she could barely think, let alone remember making an oath. Multiple oaths?

“I don’t…” Her voice came out weaker than she’d wanted, and she hurriedly cleared her throat. But before she could speak again-

“You lied, empress.”

His lips brushed against her ear, and it didn’t take much to imagine the satisfied smirk. She almost wished he’d kept that cool hand on her neck as warmth flooded her again, as she tried to remember what _exactly_ she’d sworn.

“You know it, I know it, the Hag certainly knows it - though I doubt _she_ bore witness to the events in question…”

Emily tensed, the blush creeping up her chest at the implication of his words, purred against her skin as his grip around her tightened. She cleared her throat again, and felt the slight rumble of a chuckle against her back. He tilted his face, a motion that - had it been with a less vicious intent - may have been akin to nuzzling the crook of her neck. “I-”

His lips were directly against her skin as he spoke, yet somehow, in this place, they were clear as day, practically hissed in her ear. “You put on quite a show, Your Majesty.”

If she’d had any doubt what he referred to, it dissipated immediately. Blushing furiously she broke free of his hold, stumbling away. “Oh, by the-” She cut herself off and turned on him, utterly uncomfortable with how weak her knees had gone. Her mind raced, trying to remember her oaths, even as she scolded her body for the way it hummed and tickled and reminded her how very attractive risk was. Drawn to danger. Drawn to power?

 _“‘By the Outsider?'”_ His grin was wolfish. “I’ll admit, I’ve come to enjoy the way my name rolls off your tongue.”

Tongue. _‘May the Outsider claim my lying tongue…’_

Emily stared warily, mouth snapped shut. Her blood seemed to skitter through her veins, making her skin thrum and her toes curl. She was torn, part of her wanting to move toward him, drawn in by the intrigue, the promise of something truly intoxicating, and another part warning her to get as far from this being as she could possibly get. So she didn’t move at all, unconsciously clutching at the fabric of her dress, trying to keep her breathing even.

His steps toward her were slow, casual, and she would bet he knew how each inch closer tightened her throat more than his hand ever could.

She swallowed hard.

“You swear an awful lot for a proper young lady.” For all his casual demeanor, lightly murmured words, she felt his approach like a predator. “...Such a temper.” He was teasing her, and before he could reach her he veered to the side, beginning a slow circle.

She turned, trying to keep him in her sight, her gaze sharp for all her confusion.

“...Such _passion_.” He smirked, meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second before turning his head. “I expect to hear such things from the Golden Cat, of course, but from an _empress_ …” His tongue tutted against his teeth, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Your father would be so disappointed.”

Emily scowled. Again, hinting at something he’d yet to explain. She opened her mouth to demand, _what about my father?_ But he went on.

“And these _oaths_! Such graphic language. You’d think with the amount of time you spend on your back-”

Her jaw dropped in fury. “How _dare_ you-”

His sharp-tongued voice rose to speak over her, “- _and_ your knees, and - well, all manner of positions, my dear, truly creative -- one would _think_ you’d had enough, but to bring a _god_ into it…”

She’d planted her stance confrontationally, hands balled into fists, unafraid to strike. She was mortified, furious -- all number of things that served to make her blood boil and face flush.

His pacing stopped, and black eyes fixed on hers again. “You’re just insatiable, aren’t you?”

In a flash, she’d drawn her knife, clutching it perpendicular to her arm, ready to slash at him. “Say that to my face, you black-eyed bastard,” she hissed the words, focusing on her anger, just her anger, if only to drown out the other feelings that warred inside her. Some part of her - a part she didn’t like, at least not when _he_ spoke of that part, as he did now - wanted to grin right back, to gloat, to dare him to follow through on his threats, but she smothered that part of her, let its ember burn away far below the surface, letting it scorch her.

A hand covered hers, twisting her wrist before she’d even processed the sight of him shifting into shards of Void again, and she froze as her own blade rested just below her neckline, other arm pinned to her side by what now _was_ an iron grip as he pressed against her back. Challenging him in his own domain… She was strong, but she was human. She’d almost forgotten that he was not. He was still as stone, unmoving even as she struggled to shift the angle of the blade again.

“I did.” His voice was ice, sending a shock through her, making her shiver. “And I’ll say it again.” His mouth moved to the other side this time, pressing lips hard against her ear. “ _Insatiable_.” The word seemed to echo straight into her bones, and she bit her lip until she tasted blood, killing the whimper before it could leave her throat. It was hard to hold on to her anger when all she wanted to do was turn her head and-

She forced herself to breathe, to keep her eyes open - no matter how much her eyelids fluttered - to stare straight ahead. But just those four syllables whipped that ember into a devouring flame, and the strength of it shocked her enough to loosen her grip, the knife falling to the stone with a muffled clatter. ...This was not good.

She felt his lips curve into a smile.

“You think I don’t see how often you lay awake? Few, if any, are shielded from the gaze of the Outsider, Your Majesty. And I almost hate to inform you: you are not one of them.”

Cool fingers slid over her now empty hand, weaving with hers, and she found herself sinking back against him, melting into his touch. His hand guided hers, dragging across her hips, curling over the curve of her waist...

“If the Abbey only knew of your Restless Hands…”

He once more shifted, lips moving to her left side again, and she sucked in a breath as - she couldn’t have been imagining it, she couldn’t - his teeth nipped at her ear. Their splayed hands traced straight up the center of her torso, and she found herself arching back against him as fingers brushed the inner curves of her breasts.

“You’d do well to mind your oaths.”

They kept going, further up, and she held deathly still as he guided her own hand around her neck, fingers tightening briefly.

“...And don’t threaten me, Empress.”

The warning seared into her, stony, echoing, and then she was-

_Cold-_

So Voiddamned _cold!_

She jerked back, blinking water from her eyes.

“There, she survived - are you heathens satisfied?”

Emily knelt in a daze, wiping rosewater from her face, unsure how she remained so calm. Of this she was certain: at least _one_ heathen in this room was not satisfied. Not at all.


End file.
